"So I was; but--I forgot something, and had to return for it." "What did you forget?--your pipe?" "No, my gun," replies he, in the most barefaced fashion possible. "Oh! cries Miss Beatoun lengthily, and then they both laugh. "Why don't you admit at once you had no intention of shooting to-day? It would have been much honester." "Because admissions are dangerous. It is always better policy to leave people in doubt. Yet, as I never class you in my own mind under the head of 'people,' I will confess to you it is not so much forgetfulness causes my presence here just now as a settled determination not to remember. My conscience was anything but clean when I said I had mislaid something, and should come back to find it." "Was it really your gun?" "No; I think I put it on cartridges, or a handkerchief, or--I am not clear what." "And why? What was your motive? I fancied you an indefatigable sportsman--one impossible to turn aside from your prey." "Shall I tell you my motive?" asks Chandos, in such an utterly changed low tone that Miss Beatoun, standing near the ladder, lays her hand suddenly upon it to steady herself, and retreats a step. "Better not," she says, in a voice that trembles apprehensively, in spite of all her efforts to be calm. "Remember what you said a moment since: 'Admissions are dangerous.' Better leave me in doubt." "I cannot. Besides, you are not in doubt. You know what it is I am going to say. I have come back here again to-day to tell you how I have tried, and found it impossible, to crush the love I bear you." At this juncture I become aware I am in for a scene. The certainty is horrible to me. I am in such an unhappy position as enables me to see them without myself being seen. I can also hear every word they utter. In fact, there are but very few yards between us. With shame I now recollect that Bebe once said of me that never would I be accused of "pouncing" upon delicate situations; yet, if I go out now, I shall cover them both with everlasting confusion. What shall I do? I put my fingers in my ears as a last resource and tightly close my eyes, but somehow they will not keep shut. Every now and then I cannot help glancing to see if they are gone or going--I cannot resist removing my fingers to hear if the conversation has taken a cooler turn. Every moment I linger only makes my declaring myself more difficult. I end by giving in, and staring and listening with all my might. "Ah! why does Bebe look so determined? Why can't she yield gracefully and be happy? I would at once, were I in her place, and feel no degradation in so doing. She is flushed and miserable to look at, her large eyes seeming larger and darker than usual through pained excitement. Yet still there is so much mistaken pride impressed upon her features as makes me fear for the part she will take in the interview. If she would but listen to her heart's dictation!